


Against the Dying of the Light

by MissjuliaMiriam



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Assassin!Tim, Betrayal, Brothers, Corporal Punishment, Dubious Morality, Gen, M/M, Timeline Divergence, Torture, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one life, in fact, in many lives, Tim Drake becomes Robin. In this one, he becomes the Blackbird, the Hummingbird, and above all, the Nightingale. And all of those he was made my Ra's al Ghul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taking Flight

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS. In which Ra's raises Tim, I guess. I don't really know where this is going, it's not about anything yet, but I have some ideas, and I think it'll go well enough. There will be more chapters.

Ra's gets in a fight with Batman, or rather, his ninjas do. He is in Gotham as well, overseeing, watching from afar. He expects things to be fairly routine, he doesn't really expect to win, but keeping Bruce on his toes is an enjoyable pastime.

However, the normal flow of events is interrupted when one of his ninjas brings him a child. A small boy, practically a waif, dressed in good quality rain gear and carrying a camera, he is conscious in the ninjas arms, watching everything around him, not letting a single detail escape him.

Ra's looks at the small child who is placed before him, who could not be older than seven, and maybe as young as six, and wonders.

“Who are you, child?” he asks, and the boy just stares at him with dark blue eyes, the colour of pure sapphire or perhaps the deep parts of the sea.

“My name is Timothy,” the boy says.

“And how old are you, Timothy?”

“I am eight.”

Ra's blinks slowly. He had thought the boy much younger, considering his size. But his speech was very clear, and he sat very still. “Why were you watching the Bat, Timothy?”

“Batman and Robin are heros,” he says, leaning forward just the slightest bit. This is something Timothy loves, Ra's can see.

“They are, yes. And do you know who I am?” Ra's asks.

Timothy thinks for a minute. “From what I understand, you command the assassins that attack Batman sometimes. Are you a villain?”

Ra's smiles, letting it become something slow and menacing. “I am.” But the child doesn't even blink.

“Are you going to kill me?” Tim asks. “The Batman will not pay ransom for me, or sacrifice trade Robin for me. He doesn't even know I exist.”

“No, child,” Ra's says. “I am not going to kill you. I am not enough of a monster to murder a helpless child.”

In response, Tim shifts so that he is standing in a half-decent martial arts stance. “I would not go without a fight,” he says.

“I like you, Timothy. But now you should run home to your parents.”

Tim relaxes his stance and looks up at Ra's with his huge blue eyes. “My parents are in Turkey,” he says, entirely matter-of-fact. “They are not due back for another three weeks, and my nanny does not like me, because I am smarter than she is, and I scare her.”

Ra's looks at the boy then, and the boy looks back, and all of this strikes him as profoundly wrong. This is one of the most stunning beings Ra's has ever seen in his long life, brilliantly intelligent, beautiful in a way he had never thought possible and oh so very sweet, and yet this boy, Timothy, is completely alone in the world. Even to the point where he stalks Batman. It sickens Ra's, and he is all of a sudden determined not to let it go on. “You will come with me tonight when I leave,” Ra's says. “You will return to my home in Israel, and you will live by my side.”

Tim frowns. “I do have a life here. My parents will probably not look very hard, but I do not think I can just vanish.”

“I have my ways. Now, will you do it, or shall I force you?”

“No,” Tim says, “I'll come with you. Just...” He looks down. “I don't want to become a weapon, and if that is your purpose, I will fight you for my freedom.”

“I would not turn a creature such as you into a mindless warrior for my cause,” Ra's replies. “And even if I wanted too, I doubt that I could. You are too strong already for that.” It occurs to Ra's that Tim is far too old for such small bones as he has, and that once he is grown he will be as ancient as Ra's is, deep in his heart.

Tim nods. “Thank you. I will go with you, then.”

And with that, it is settled.

 

Ra's teaches Tim everything. Teaches him how to ride, to act, to fight. Teaches him art, and music, and poetry, and teaches him how to smile without meaning it. He also teaches Tim how to smile and mean it with the absolute fullness of his heart, because that is something Tim has never known. Ra's tells Tim his deepest secrets, about the Lazarus Pits and about Talia, who Tim does not meet for a long time. He tells Tim about what life was like when he was a king in the very dawn of his long days upon the earth, and of meeting gods and monsters and men. Ra's tells Tim that of all those he has met and loved and lost and conquered, the humans have been the most terrifying. Because a god, he says, believes himself eternally steeped in light, and a monster has never known the balance of its own darkness. A man knows light and dark, and embraces both, and that is where strength comes from.

When Tim meets Talia, he is surprised how much she is at once like her father and utterly different from him. The first time he sees her she is just returned from a venture, and she is covered in blood. He is standing in a shadowed corner of the entry hall, practicing being unseen by all those who pass by, and she strides in like a queen, drenched in the scarlet life of those who would challenge her. “Damian,” is what she says, and one of the young maidservants that Tim has seen attending Ra's hurries from a side-door, a small child held close to her body. The child- a boy, Tim can see, perhaps two years old- is handed over to Talia, who takes him with hands that still have blood caked under the nails, and hugs him close.

“Ummi!” he crows in childish Arabic, and Tim watches, surprised, as this powerful woman holds him as warmly as any mother he has ever seen holding their child does. Somewhere deep in the part of Tim's mind that is still a child, he wishes for that too.

Talia smiles at her boy, at Damian, and she says, “Were you good while I was away?”

The boy nods.

Her smiles widens. “And the tutors have begun to teach you the value of silence.”

Damian nods again, and suddenly Tim is angry. Because no child should be taught silence. Not like he was.

“Are you having fun?”

“Yes!” Damian says, in Arabic. “I hide, and if the tutors hear my noise, they find me!”

“That is correct,” says Talia, gently, and she starts to make her way up the stairs. Tim loses the thread of the conversation, his Arabic not good enough to follow once the language is muffled by distance. He stands very still for a while longer, determined not to be seen, but his mind is busy, mulling over what he had heard.

Damian, clearly Talia's son, was growing up an assassin. That did not mean that Tim would not protect him, even from Ra's, if it came to it. Every child deserved to have someone, someone to be a friend in a harsh world, who never asked anything of him. Tim had not had that, but Damian would not go without. That much Tim was decided on.

 

Tim does not call Ra's father, or grandfather, nor does he call Talia mother. But he calls Damian brother, and he is sad when the younger boy leaves the castle to train with other masters. Tim remains behind, and to comfort him Ra's gives him a lavish gift, and then teaches him how to use it.

It is a knife, a stunning item that is long and slim, and tucks neatly against one of Tim's pale thighs when it is not in use. Ra's teaches Tim how to kill with it before his target even realizes he is there, and then sends him out to terrorize the ninjas. Tim is small and silent and stealthy, and soon, with his training, he becomes something of a gauntlet for the newest recruits to the League of Shadows. Any ninja unskilled enough to be unable to detect his presence or react within the space of an instant finds themselves cut and bleeding from small knife wounds, again and again, places closely enough to vital areas that should Tim be trying, they would be dead.

In those days, some trainees lose their nerve and flee, and the League is better for it.

 

When Tim turns ten, Talia begins to teach him the woman's arts. How to dance, and decorate his skin with henna, and how to beguile with words and false promises and flirtations. Tim learns how to wear clothing that is as lovely as he is, and how to use his body to draw attention and lower the guards of lesser men. He is young still, she says, and makes him promise that he will not go to anyone's bed until he is entirely ready. And because Tim knows what rape is, he agrees, and learns from her the ways to prevent wandering hands and forced touch.

Tim is stunning, even at such a young age, moon-faced and pale, and he moves with the grace of a dancer and the lightness of a bird on the wing. His limbs are delicate, and his fingers flittering and lovely, and very few who catch his deep-sea blue eyes are able to look away before Tim does. His black hair begins to grow out, hanging long enough that he can tie it back into a short ponytail, leaving out his bangs to frame his face.

When he is still learning, Tim neglects the coloured silks and linens in his wardrobe in order to favour black. Most days he wears the simple clothes in which he practices fighting, and acrobatics, and marksmanship, both with a bow and with a gun, and dance. But once Talia takes him under her wing, he begins to wear bright colours for the first time in his life. Bright red is his favourite, and he loves the baggy silk pants he owns, with the thick belt that comes high on his waist. Often, he will wear those and nothing else, instead allowing Talia to paint his shoulders and chest with henna. He also finds favour in white linen shirts, loose and undecorated, that show only the slightest bit of skin at his collar, and in western style tunics, dyed in all colours of the rainbow and embroidered with beads at the waist and hems. And he loves wraps, long sheaths of cloths that he can twine around his body, sometimes wrapping long, sheer scarves around his waist or over his shoulders, sometimes even veiling his face. More than anything, though, Tim loves jewelry, circlets in gold and silver, bangles of tiger's eye and garnet, slave bracelets studded with opal and quartz. Earrings, pendants, hairpins, all of them shining gems against the canvas of his skin.

He becomes an enchanting butterfly in Ra's' household, a rumour among courtiers and warriors both. He will sometimes sit at Ra's' side, or in his lap, and whisper in his ear as the lord holds his court, a strange a pretty thing that many do not understand. Those who know him only as the shining gem in Ra's' crown call him the Hummingbird, who hovers and whispers and glitters and distracts. He flitters through consciousnesses, untouchable by all, and no one knows him. Some strangers assume that he is a woman, a sweet girl caught in Ra's' web, or a boy who is a slave, bought for pleasure. Tim knows that he is neither, and when he leans against his lord's chest, being fed sweet grapes by one of the most powerful men in the world, he feels like a prince.

In the night, when all the lights of the court have gone out, all the pretty, useless people have taken their troubles and gone home, Tim becomes something else entirely. He becomes an al Ghul, a shadow even in darkness, the one that the League calls the Blackbird. He is a shade, something dark and deadly, and no one knows this part of him either, because rather than showing so much that they see nothing, he simply tucks away every part of himself that is anything, and becomes the waif that he was before Ra's found him, an empty child searching endlessly for something to fill the gaps in his heart.

He is more of a complete person now, and it makes Tim happy to know that of himself. And Ra's calls that complete person the Nightingale. Tim is Ra's' Nightingale, singing sweet, sad song, inspiring and bringing light and joy and something new into his heart and his house. That whole happiness consumes them all, and for a year, nothing changes.

And then, something does. Everything does.


	2. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Beating as punishment, implied consensual underage sex.

 

Jason Todd comes into Tim's life like the striking of a match: so small as to be nothing, and the beginning of something wild and powerful. At first, when he is still broken and thin, shattered until he was a mindless doll, Tim sees no reason to deal with him. But seeing the way Talia doted on Jason, even to the point of ignoring Damian and Tim himself, he becomes curious. He knows who Jason is, of course, he had followed him for a long time when he was still Robin, and he had heard from Ra's' Gotham spies what had happened. But now, a year after Jason's death, the boy himself mysteriously back from the dead and living in Tim's home, Tim feels that Jason is a stranger, and therefore is to be learned.

Tim discovers quickly that there is not much to learn of an empty shell. Jason is only a shadow of what he once was, and though there is something in his eyes that makes Tim think that he could be saved, it is distant and dying with each passing day.

He tells Ra's as much, a month after Jason joins them, and Ra's smooths his hair and whispers that Jason means nothing, that he is a simple pet of Talia's and her interest will wane. Tim frowns, because many things are short entertainments to Talia, but she has sent away Damian to be trained elsewhere while she dotes on Jason, and that is wrong. There is something different about Jason, it seems, that he has managed to capture not only Talia's attention, but also Tim's. The only one resistant is Ra's, for a reason unknown to Tim.

It is not a surprise to Tim when Talia asks her father for use of the Lazarus Pit in order to heal Jason. It is also not a surprise that Ra's refuses. His lord is not a kind man, nor a particularly generous one, except in regard to those he cherishes. And again, it does not surprise Tim in the least when Talia defies Ra's' wishes.

He does somewhat surprise himself when he comes upon Ra's berating Talia for her actions, his hand raised to strike her. Instead of standing by as he would if it were any other member of the court, he steps in and takes the blow for Talia. Ra's freezes, and Tim simply stares at him. “It was my idea,” Tim says, and hopes that Ra's cannot see through the lie. “I wanted to know Jason Todd, not this shell.”

“Did you now?” Ra's asks, narrowing his eyes over the top of Tim's head at Talia.

“He did,” Talia says. “We both wanted it, and I agreed to try whether you allowed it or not. He asked that I not take the fall, but I didn't want him hurt.”

“Do not hit her,” Tim says, pleading just a little. “It was my fault, I just wanted to meet him.”

Jason is unconscious behind Talia, bandages still wrapped around his body. He had escaped the pit in a frenzy, and it had taken many ninja, including Talia herself, to subdue him. But she stands over him protecting him as if he were her own, and Tim sees it when Ra's comes to realize the meaning of her actions.

“As you will,” he says, and looks to Timothy. “Follow.” And then he turns and walks away, leaving Talia to tend to Jason. Tim glances over his shoulder at her only once, an uncharacteristic nervousness rising in him. He does not know what plans his lord has for him. Talia meets Tim's eyes, and in silence she tells him that he will be fine, that when it is over she will be there to help. Tim tries to smile, and fails, and then trots after his lord, silent as the grave that Jason had crawled out of.

 

After, Ra's lets Tim curl into his lap while those old hands soothe the hot marks on his back with balm and wipe away tears with gentle fingers. He tells Tim that he cried so quietly, that he bore it well, that he was noble and brave. He tells Tim that he is not sorry.

Tim knows.

 

Damian comes home. He walks to Talia with the grace of a killer, or a dancer, of an al Ghul, and greets his mother formally, and bows to her as if she is a goddess. She blesses him with a single kiss upon his brow, still so young and smooth, and he allows himself a bright smile for her. Then with his eyes he begs her for permission to greet Tim as a younger brother would greet the elder, and when she grants it he runs across the hall. He tosses himself at Tim, a small solid weight that Tim catches and pulls close, despite the lingering pain in his back.

Around the room, battle-hardened warriors and pretty, useless people smile in just the same way as their princes reunite. Many know the nature of Damian's absence from the citadel, but very few know of the punishment that Tim bore only nights before, and that is as it should be. Damian is the heir to Ra's' empire; his life has never been his own.

Damian is a comfort to Tim, who until know has not known the harshness of his master's hand, had not understood the cruelty that the Lazarus Pit has bred in Ra's over the years. He does his best to remember that he brought it on himself, that he had asked to take the blow for Talia. But the does not negate the memory of the whip falling across his back again and again, of the way Ra's had not stopped until he screamed, sobbed, begged and promised never to be so selfish again. It does not make him forget that Ra's had left him tied to the post long enough to drag his finger across the marks he left on Tim's skin, none of them quite harsh enough to cause him to bleed, but every single one a lash of lingering pain.

Tim tries not to linger on that, though, and instead retreats with Damian, taking the younger boy away from the court and from his training, if only for a day, to curl close and share stories of the good and that bad that has befallen them while they were apart. Damian does not tell Tim of everything he has done, and Tim does not speak of his punishment, and they are happy.

 

Jason wakes three days after Damian arrives home, and Tim goes to see him while Damian is spending time with his mother.

Jason is groggy still, staring at his ceiling blankly when Tim slips into the room.

“Jason Todd,” Tim says to him, and settles in a chair next to the bed.

“That's m'name,” Jason mumbles. “D'n't wear t'out.”

Tim smiles. “My name is Timothy. Please call me Tim.”

Jason turns his head to blink at Tim. “I dunno where I am,” he says. “But I know i's no' home.”

“No, you are far from your home.” Tim looks down. “What do you remember?”

“Laughter,” says Jason. “Pain. And then-” A shudder wracks his body, and he shuts his eyes tightly against whatever demon is haunting him.

“You died,” Tim says, unwilling to soften the truth. Jason will need to face it, and now is perhaps the best time, when he is free to sleep and hide and weep if he will.

“Yeah.”

“Have any of the servants told you where you are?”

“No.”

Tim looks at him, and tilts his head just a little to the side. “You are in the home of Ra's al Ghul.”

Jason looks at Tim, his eyes narrowed. “Oh. An' who're you, his whore?”

Tim laughs, restrained but truly amused. “No, I am nothing of the sort. I am his ward.”

“Like I was Bruce's,” Jason says. His eyes are a bit more clear than they were only minutes ago, and Tim thinks that having company is beneficial to Jason's recovery. Silently, he resolves to visit every day until Jason is well again.

“I suppose,” Tim says. “Although Ra's is less of a a father and more of a master, to me. He cares for me, but he is not my parent. Nor will he be yours; do not think to try to make him so. He is father to no one but his daughter, and grandfather to no one but his grandson.”

“I got a dad,” says Jason. “And a mom.”

“As do I.” Tim bows his head, remembering Jack and Janet, and how they were at once good to him and the absolute worst. “I left them, though. This is better.”

“Is it?”

Tim nods, and Jason just looks at him. His blinks and slow, and heavy, and his eyes are tired.

“Sleep,” Tim says. “I will return tomorrow.”

Jason nods, and then his breathing evens into patterns of sleep. Tim watches for a moment, then slips out of the room to find Damian.

 

Damian leaves the castle again, returning to his training. Tim mourns in a way, missing his brother from the moment he is gone. It seems as though he will be gone forever, although Talia tell him that unless something changes, he will be gone only a few years.

Tim is almost eleven, and by the time Damian returns, he will likely be fifteen, or even sixteen. It makes him feel sick to know that his brother will be gone for that long, despite Ra's' assurances that he will be allowed to visit from time to time. And of course, Damian will not forget him. He is only five years of age now, but he loves Tim more than anyone but Talia. That will not change. Tim knows it.

In the mean time, Tim must occupy himself, must continue his training and learn of the world and gather experiences. He reads and rides horses, and fights with the ninja. He takes some small assignments for the League of Shadows, and he learns to kill without remorse. His training steps up, leaving him with very little time to himself, but what time he does have, he spends with Jason.

Jason is interesting to Tim, and something strange blooms between them as the months whirl away, like sand into the wind. Tim doesn't think of it as love, but more as freedom, and the right to have what he wants because he wants it. Jason is amusing, and sweet, and he indulges Tim's moments of needy tactility. He is always hugging and touching, stroking his fingers through Tim's hair while Tim reads aloud to him, or sparring with him until they collapse to the practice mats in a heap. Jason warms the ice that grows within Tim, and Tim banishes the darkness from Jason's eyes.

Tim is eleven, and then twelve, and then thirteen, and then fourteen, and his training reaches its peak, and his relationship with Jason evolves. They share kisses in dark places, and they lie together in the pitch black shadows of night, where Jason runs rough hands over Tim's body and teaches him what cannot be taught. Jason is older, almost eighteen, and he is something that should be forbidden, but isn't.

Ra's allows their relationship for a time. But then Tim starts to drift away from him, to spend his time tucked away with Jason instead of sprawled across Ra's' lap as he holds court. Tim starts to fall in love, even though he knows that he should not. Ra's sees that, and comes to Tim before he leaves on an assignment and tells him that what he had with Jason is over. It hurts Tim, but he does not mourn. Not like he did Damian's leaving. When he returns from his mission, his blade bloodied and his eyes dark, Jason is gone.

Talia says, “He went home, to be with his family.”

Ra's says, “Love is poison, Timothy. Never forget.”

Tim commits the words to memory, even as he asks for a day with his brother. Ra's smiles and allows it, and tells Tim that family comes above all else. That this is why Jason left, and that it is why Tim will always stay. Tim turns his face into Ra's hand, and thinks that he will never be Ra's' son, but that for Damian he would go to the ends of the earth and back again.

 

Damian is almost ten years old when he returns to the citadel. Tim is soon the be sixteen, and Talia has grand plans for the both of them.

She pulls them aside one evening, and says, “My sons.”

Damian nods, and Tim smiles his Nightingale smile, the one that is his.

“You are young, and yet nearly grown. Perfect, or as perfect as I can make you. And now you must go. Leave the nest, so to speak, and fly on your own.”

“You are sending us to father,” Damian says, and Tim cocks his head. He has never met the man that was once so important to him, and that is now so important to his brother, and to Talia.

“I am,” Talia says, and takes Damian into a tight embrace, and then releases him. “I do not feel ready to let you go, but it is time.”

“I am ready,” Damian promises. “I have been ready for a year, mother. You know that.”

“No,” Tim says, quietly. “I was with you a year ago, for a few days. You were not ready.”

Damian glares, but does not contest Tim's words as he would have if it were Talia that had spoken. He knows that his brother knows him better than anyone, and that Tim is never wrong about him.

“Timothy,” Talia says now, turning to Tim. “You will go with him.”

“Yes. What am I to do?”

“Protect him,” says Talia, laying a hand on Tim's shoulder. “Keep him on the right path, guide him, and above all else, make sure that he has an ally. A brother, to be by his side, and care for him, and be his friend when the world stands against him. Because it will, at least at first.”

Damian looks disgruntled that his mother is speaking as though he isn't there, but says nothing. Tim just nods, and puts on his Blackbird face. “Always, ma'am,” he says. This is the easiest mission he has ever been given, Tim thinks. Not even a true mission, because it is a duty he wants to perform.

Damian says, “When are we to leave?”

Talia tells him that they have a day to pack their belongings and say their goodbyes. Damian nods, and immediately scurries away to pack and they say goodbye to his tutors and teachers. Tim has no one to say goodbye to, and so lingers a moment with Talia. She walks out onto a balcony and looks down into the ravine below, and Tim follows her.

“You should pack, Tim,” she says, quietly.

“In a moment,” he says. “You have done well by me.”

“This is not the last we will see of each other,” says Talia, a warning in her voice.

Tim disagrees, but does not tell her so. His gut feelings have often been right, but he does not want to upset her now. Not when he feels unlikely to see her again, once he leaves her side. “Of course,” he says, instead, and bows his head. “Even so. Thank you. You did not need to treat me so kindly as you have; I am not your son.”

“You are no one's son, Timothy. Perhaps you never have been.”

That is true, and Tim tells her so. Then he says, “You asked me to protect Damian, and I will. But you must also understand-”

“That you are not nearly so emotionless as you present yourself to be. I know. I trust you with him.”

“Thank you. Goodbye, Talia.”

Then he turns and walks away, and pretends that he doesn't hear Talia whisper a goodbye to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. The next one might be the last? But I don't know if this will be the only fic in this 'verse. We shall see.


	3. Interim: Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a short interim chapter. There'll be something longer and more quality next time, I swear. Enjoy.

Timothy and Damian arrive in Gotham, and it is nothing special. They decide to spend a night in the city before turning up on the doorstep of Wayne Manor, and they employ their skills and Tim's old knowledge of the Batman's habits to follow him through the pitch black shadows of the city. They are silent, comfortable with quiet as they always are, and when they return to their hotel room in the early hours of the morning, they feel tired. It is a strange feeling to the both of them, who are trained to be resilient in the extreme, but they are tired, and they fall into the single bed together, their backs pressed together, guarded. They are wary and out of place in this big, noisy city, but they both sleep like the dead with their closest ally at their backs.

They wake close to two in the afternoon, and they turn towards each other and speak of all the things that the evening is sure to hold. Damian talks about how his father has been as a god to him until now, and it's strange to have seen him for the first time last night, even from a distance. It was strange to see him strike down his enemies, hear the sound of armour against skin, and remember that his father is human. Timothy smiles at him and says that even though Jason was no where to be found, he could feel his presence in the city. Damian asks if Tim is still in love with Jason, and Tim says no. It's the truth. It has been for a long time, though Tim has never forgotten what it felt like.

Damian asks Tim what it did feel like, and Tim isn't able to answer. There are no words, he tells his brother. And he tells him that one day he will know for himself. Damian sighs and tucks himself against Tim then, and they hold each other close, because they know that it will be a long time before they are allowed this much weakness again. Maybe they will never be allowed this much weakness again.

 

It takes a few hours, but the brothers gather their strength and pack their bags, and then make themselves presentable. Timothy changes into a red linen shirt that is cut close to his waist, but hangs loose enough around his arms that he can tuck blades against his wrists. He wears black pants, simple and comfortable, and tucks the dagger that Ra's gifted to him so long ago into the curve of his back, right against the lowest part of his spine. His shirt falls just below it, barely loose enough to disguise its shape. He leaves his hair down to brush against his jaw, the longer strands in the back touching the collar of his shirt.

Damian wears white, a close cut tunic and soft leather pants showing off the strength of his body. He looks like a warrior, even though he still has a child's face, with his short hair and his fighter's dress. He looks to Tim for approval, and to appraise his brother in turn, and they give each other nods. They are ready. As ready as they will ever be, that is.

There is no true readiness for an event that they both know full well will change their lives forever, for good or for ill.

Tim drives across town, headed for the mansion that belongs to Bruce Wayne. He leaves his bike propped outside the gate, and together Tim and Damian scale the wall and walk across the wide grounds to the front door. Tim knocks, once, and then steps back to stand at his brother's back. This is not about him, for all that he will be important in the coming days.

Alfred Pennyworth, who Tim met once when he was young, and studied for the purpose of this journey, opens the door. The old man raises an eyebrow at them, then asks in an accented voice if he can help them.

Damian smiles, and tells him that they are there to see his father. Alfred starts, and gives Damian a measured look, then assesses Tim with the same amount of caution. After a moment, he allows them entrance. They have no coats for him to take, but he shows them where they can leave their showed, and then he shows them through the mansion to the oak doors of a study. They enter, neither of them sure what will be awaiting them inside.

Bruce Wayne himself waits for them.

“Who are you?” he asks, and Damian bows deeply to his father.

“My name is Damian. This is my companion, Timothy. My mother, Talia al Ghul, sent me to meet you for the first time, father.”

Bruce blinks at them, shocked. “You're my son?”

“I am,” says Damian, and he glances at Tim. Tim glares at him for the weakness betrayed in the gesture, but Bruce doesn't seem to notice. He's been taken off guard as well.

“Talia told me nothing of you, the last time I saw her. How old are you? And why did she keep you from me?” Bruce strands from behind his desk and walks around it, stopping to stare down at Damian.

“I was not ready, father. I am meant to be a partner to you, and eventually to take your role as the Bat. I've trained my whole life to be your equal, and my mother has nothing more to teach me. I am yours, now, to train. To make perfect.” Damian bows again, and then slides into a combative stance. “I will fight you, here and now, if I must prove that I am worthy.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me,” Bruce says. There's something cold in his tone now, something that had been erased by the shock earlier. “You're an assassin.”

“Yes, father.”

Bruce shakes his head, and shoots Tim a wary glance. “I won't train an assassin. That's not how I work. Tell your mother that I'll take you, if you really want to be here, but I won't keep your... companion in my home. He's not welcome.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “Despite what you may think, Mr. Wayne,” he says, “I am not here to kill you, or either of your wards. Or Mr. Pennyworth. I am here to be a friend to Damian in an environment that has already proven to be... less than accepting.”

Bruce glares. “Damian is my son.”

“You know nothing about him. You've just met him.”

“And?”

“And,” says Tim, “nothing. Talia may have ideas about his destiny, but I am his brother, and if I believe you to be an unfit guardian for him, I will take him. I care very little for what Talia will try to do to me, or to you for losing her son.”

“Fine,” says Bruce, after a long pause. “But don't think that I trust you.”

“Do please expect the same from me, Mr. Wayne.”

Damian turned to frown at Tim. “Be civil, Tim.”

“Only if he is, Dami,” Tim says, and smiles at Damian, some real warmth seeping through the cracks in the facade of fake brightness.

“Don't do that,” Damian demands, and then turns back to his father. “My apologies. He can be a bit ridiculous at times, for all that he has a fearsome reputation within the League.”

“I see,” says Bruce, and purses his lips. “Well. I suppose you should get settled in. I'll have Alfred set up rooms for you both.”

“Thank you, father,” says Damian, and he bows again, and then he follows after Alfred when he appears to lead them to their rooms. Tim lingers for just a second to stare Bruce down, and then follows, his footsteps brisk.

Alfred throws him a look over his shoulder when he catches up that says, _I know what you did._

Tim smiles, and knows that this will be fun.


	4. The Bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really late, and I apologize. However, this is the final full chapter, and the epilogue will be going up immediately. I apologize in advance for everything.

Damian settles in much more quickly than Tim. That is a surprise to neither of them, though they had expected Damian to have more trouble than he does. Fortunately, Dick Grayson takes a great liking to Damian, and takes him under his wing in what seems like no time at all. Tim is happy for Damian, that he is able to fit in with his father, and his adoptive brother so very well. Unfortunately, Damian's training, and the time that he spends "bonding" with Grayson and with his father leave Tim at loose ends more and more as the days pass. He finds himself wandering the halls of the manor, or sitting in the library with a book of myths, or sitting quiet and perfectly still in the kitchen while Pennyworth cooks.

Of the household, the only person capable of being civil to Tim is Pennyworth himself, who seems happy enough to spend time with Tim when he isn't busy with chores or cooking, and sometimes when he is. Tim enjoys talking with the old, British man, debating philosophies of kindness and servitude, or just discussing chess. They play, and Tim wins some and loses some, a delight for him who loses anything so very rarely. It is a wonder for him to have a rival who is not out for his blood.

Weeks pass, and eventually Damian starts going out on patrol next to the Bat. At first, he wears black, a shadow who darts in and helps, not yet ready to stand on his own, to wear the red and green. But his time comes, and Grayson bestows upon him a Robin costume of his very own, different from all those that came before, and yet so very familiar. So very iconic. He goes to see Tim, first, when he puts it on for the first time, bursting into Tim's room and throwing himself at his brother. Tim crushes the instinct to toss his assailant into the wall and instead grabs Damian in a hug, smiling widely.

"You've done well," he says. "And I am proud of you."

Damian smiles up at him, a small thing. "Thank you," he says. "I worked hard for it."

"You don't need to tell me that," Tim says, and then looks up. Grayson is standing at the doorway, watching their embrace with an affectionate glint in his eye. Tim's face closes off, and he pulls away from Damian. Damian looks up at him, frowning, and then seems to realize. But he doesn't close himself off the way Tim does when he turns to look at Grayson.

Grayson looks at Tim for a moment before kneeling to place a hand on Damian's shoulder, and grin. "We'll go out tonight," he says, ignoring Tim. "Your very first night out as Robin. Bruce and Jason will join us, I'm sure."

"I will join you," Tim says, quietly. "If that is permitted."

Grayson glances up, his gaze sharpening. "I'd much rather you didn't," he says, and Damian pinches him. "Ow," he whines. "What?"

"Do not disrespect Timothy," Damian demands. "He is every bit the warrior you are, and perhaps your better."

Tim smirks, and Dick huffs, then nods. “Fine, Dami. But he's not allowed to patrol alone- Jason will have to stay with him.”

The smirk fades from Tim's face. He remembers, still, what it was like to be with Jason. He remembers what it felt like to take the first steps towards falling in love. He remembers happiness; true companionship for the first time in his life. He remembers leaving, and knowing that Jason would be gone when he returned. He remembers that he hasn't seen Jason since he arrived in Gotham with Damian. “No. I'd much rather stay with you, and Damian.”

“Tonight is the first night Batman and Robin will be seen out together for a long time- we can't have a tagalong.”

“I thought you reputation didn't matter.”

Dick snorts. “I wish. But our image is important. Our reputation makes up about a third of our power in Gotham, because when it comes right down to it, we're all human. You're a disciple of the League of Shadows, surely you understand.”

“Ra's can afford slips of image,” Tim says, “because he has the power to back it up. If you do not have that power, perhaps you should find it, or else you will all fall eventually.”

“Everyone dies,” Dick replies. “If you try to deny that, you're as much a monster as your master is.”

Tim bristles. “You know nothing.”

“I know enough.”

Damian pinches Dick again. “Do not disrespect my grandfather, either.”

“Sorry, Damian,” Dick says, but he doesn't look away from Tim. “Why are you so afraid to patrol with Jason?”

“We have history,” Tim says. He doesn't deny that he is afraid- it would be a lie. He is not so strong yet as to escape fear entirely, and even if he were, to abandon fear entirely would be folly. Fear is a weapon, as well as a shield from overconfidence. The trick was to not let it stop him from excelling as a warrior. “It doesn't matter, I suppose. If your only demand is that I patrol with Jason- I mean, Todd, then yes, I'll do it. Now get out of my room. You aren't welcome here.”

Dick narrows his eyes, but stands, and steers Damian towards the door. “We'll see you in a few hours, then. Timothy.”

“Grayson.”

 

Night falls, and Tim changes into the wispy charcoal robe and simple body armour that lets him become a shadow. Then he goes to find the others in the underground cavern dubbed the Batcave. He finds the name a bit ridiculous, but keeps that to himself in the face of Damian's excitement. Any other child would be near to bouncing off the walls- Damian is just bouncing on his toes, the motion barely there, but enough that Tim smiles at him for a brief second, his brother's joy warming his own heart.

"Are you ready?" he asks, raising and eyebrow at Damian.

Damian nods, and rolls his shoulders, his cape fluttering at his ankles. His boots give him some height, and his blooming confidence helps him stand tall- Tim can see it best in the firm line of his waist under his armour, the set of his shoulders, and most of all in his eyes when he meets Tim's gaze. "I've never been more ready in my life," Damian says, and it sounds like an oath. A promise that he will be able to bear the weight of the costume he wears, and the legacy it carries.

Tim is proud of him. He wants to gather Damian to him, to kiss his forehead as Talia did when Damian was young, to take his hands and dance with him as though they wore silks and henna, not kevlar and cotton. But he is suddenly, strikingly aware of Grayson at the computer banks, and Jason standing at his shoulder. Jason is watching Tim, his green-blue eyes dark, angry. Hurt. Tim wants to look away, but does not. Cannot, not with Damian looking at him like he has come this far to see Tim smile, and Jason looking at him like he would see Tim's heart break as his own broke all those years ago.

Tim wants to say sorry, suddenly. To beg forgiveness as he would beg it of Ra's, by throwing himself at Jason's feet, giving his own blood to sooth the hurts between them. He remembers what it felt like to fall in love with Jason, and remembers knowing that love would destroy him. He thinks now that perhaps love has already destroyed him, not that he would ever let it show on his face. Tim knows full well that while weakness is inevitable, it is also best kept within his skin, just like everything about himself that he values, or else those things will be taken. That is why he cannot love Jason, or anyone- to have that would be to let all those precious things escape his skin, and leave marks like scars, or targets.

Instead of saying sorry, or spilling his soul to Jason, or even to Damian, Tim squares his shoulders steps away from Damian to make a final cursory check of his weaponry. Damian watches him do it, a small smirk on his face, and when Tim is done, Damian asks, "Are you ready?"

"I've never been more ready in my life," Tim replies, just a little bit teasing, and then they go together over to Jason and Grayson, as prepared as they could possibly be for a night out.

They stay at each others' sides as long as possible, until Grayson is ushering Damian into the Batmobile, and Tim is standing off with Jason beside a motorcycle, just a little bit awkward.

"You're not driving," Jason says, finally, long minutes after Grayson and Damian peeled out of the Cave. "Just... don't fall off, and don't squeeze too hard."

Tim hums, and seats himself behind Jason on the motorcycle, his grip around Jason's waist firm. "I don't expect I will fall," he says into Jason's ear, eliciting a small shudder, and then they take off out of the Cave as well, the wing whipping Tim's hair away from his face, his hood flapping behind him.

They patrol together for close to an hour before they meet up with Batman and Robin, as Phoenix and his near-invisible, deadly shadow. Tim wears his hood pull so far over his face that Jason assumes that he's blinded by it, and so does not hide his looks, suspicion and distaste clear on his face. Tim grows tired of it quickly, but maintains his silence rather than starting a discussion, knowing that he will get nowhere with Jason. More than that, he has no desire to ruin Damian's first night out on the job by maiming or being maimed by one of Damian's new brothers.

Thinking of Jason and Richard as Damian's brothers makes Tim scowl behind his hood, and the next thug he comes up against falls in an unnecessary, but very satisfying spray of blood.

"Watch it," Jason says, and Tim rolls his eyes, safe in the darkness of his cowl.

"Certainly," he drawls. "Next time, I promise not to break his skin."

"I meant the trail of bodies."

Tim hums, as close to a laugh as he will allow himself. "I am an assassin, _Jason_. I kill. If you have an issue with that, please take it to the man who trained me."

"Don't call me that," Jason snarls, but says nothing else to Tim until they spot Damian and his menacing minder, swinging down from a highrise towards a lower rooftop. Jason and Tim take off after them, and join up with them as they break up a fight between two rival gangs, Grayson kicking guns out of hands, and Damian breaking bones.

No necks, though, which makes Tim feel at once proud of his brother for his control, and irritated with the Bat's pacifist ways. The fight ends quickly, and Tim and Jason drop down next to Grayson and Damian. "Good work," Tim murmurs quietly to Damian. "You are strong."

Damian beams up at him for a split second, then turns back to Grayson. "Are we done here?" he demands. "I would very much like to move on."

Grayson laughs. "Of course, Damian." He looks at Jason. "Are you joining us?" He pointedly does not acknowledge Tim, which makes Damian's scowl deepen.

Jason shakes his head, though. "I'm done for the night," he says. "Tired of picking up the bastard's bodies." He jerks his thumb at Tim, not that his meaning was unclear originally.

"You did no such thing," Tim says. "All you have done all night is break bones and narrow your eyes at me. I cleaned up my own messes, and for that matter I did not need to worry about anything as useless as zipties and police calls."

"You're a murderer," Jason says, "I can call you what I want."

 _Somehow_ , Tim thinks, _he is under the impression that name-calling bothers me_. "I am efficient," he replies, instead of making a sarcastic remark like he so desperately wants to. "And I am good at my job. Please stop trying to make this about morality." He wants to argue that if anything, he has the moral high ground. Those men are not the kind who could ever be rehabilitated, and now they are off the streets for good. They also won't need to suffer from their injuries, or place a strain on the city's medical resources for their care. They are dead, and the world is richer for it.

"It _is_ about morality," Grayson says, his tone insistent. "You don't just get to choose who lives and who dies. You don't know who they are, or their stories."

"Their _stories_? Why should I care even the slightest about their stories?" Tim asks. "They are scum-sucking bottom feeders, only a step below the men who grow rich and fat on the suffering of others without even bothering to get their hands dirty. Just because I kill does not make me and better or worse than you, and for that matter it does not make me worse than them. The world turns on an axis of reason, Grayson. Motive. What thrives in the bowels of Gotham City is mindless violence, with no reason to it at all but sadistic pleasure and survival. And neither of those things can be erased by prison."

Grayson just shakes his head, a pitying frown on his face. "You really don't understand," he says. "Do you?"

Tim throws his hood back and very nearly snarls at Grayson, instead settling for cold fury that paint every inch of his face. "It is you who does not understand," he grinds out, and then he leaps for a fire escape and takes off through the night, cursing Grayson for his idiocy, himself for his loss of control, and the world for its ingrained sickness, the likes of which could be found nowhere but in the hearts, minds, and actions of human beings.

 

Something changes after that. Something subtle, in the way Timothy interacts with the Bats, and is interacted with. The way Grayson looks at him, maybe, or the tone of Jason's voice. Not something he can put a name too, but enough to make him feel... off. Wrong. Like something is crawling beneath his skin and settling in his veins, something that makes him feel at once like his bones are made of lead and liable to shudder out of his own skin at the slightest prompting.

He wonders if he has been poisoned, but remembers that that is absurd. That is something Ra's might do to teach him a lesson, not a Bat tactic.

Then he takes a step back, and thinks about his life as it is now. Bruce Wayne does not speak to him. Jason will sometimes hurl a spiteful comment his direction if he seems vulnerable, but besides that sticks to stony silence and glaring. Grayson has, of late, begun to seek him out on rare occasion, though, to ask him about Damian, or needle him for information on the League of Shadows. The first, Tim provides cautiously, the second he does not provide at all. But Grayson seems less cold, somehow, and it makes Tim wary. He fears a ploy to make him comfortable, to take him off his guard and discover his weaknesses, before destroying him utterly. Death is the one thing the Bats will not promise Tim, and that in itself is one of the worst things he can imagine. They could do anything to him, a thousand tortures at their disposal, but they would not kill him. Not even if he begged, he thinks, and so Grayson's careful interest is deflected as best as Tim can.

Most days, Tim hides himself away. He spends time with Damian, when he can, but Damian is drawing away from him, slowly but surely. He hears Damian snarking with Jason, laughing with Grayson, having quiet discussion with his father, or just plain quiet with Cassandra Cain, who appears out of the shadows a few weeks after Damian's first night as Robin. Tim likes her, in a distant way, but knows that she of all of them will have the easiest time in penetrating his defences. So he avoids her, too.

The last straw is a boy, really. A small boy, a street rat with eyes that hold the whole world, and quick fingers that tighten into fists when he laughs, and bandaids on his face, and hair that is red like fire, and just as untameable. He has horrors in his past, but his soul is made of iron, and it will take very much to break him, even though he seems the type to break before he bends. He is cheerful, and strong, and flawed in the way all humans are.

His name is Colin, and Tim watches Damian fall in love, in the way that only a child can. In a way that he did, maybe, years ago. Tim knows, then, that he does not belong here anymore, if he ever did.

He makes plans to leave, starting then, but he does not. He cannot tear himself away from Damian, even though every day lays another straw upon his back, adds to the unnameable something that crawls in his gut.

(He refuses to call it fear, because what does he have to be afraid of? Being alone? Surely not, when his life has been such a solitary one so far. And more than that, if he calls it fear, he is admitting that this is something that cannot be truly conquered. In this, he must be strong.)

Then comes the darkest day. When Tim is sure that yes, today he will say his goodbyes, because Damian did not need him any more. And then everything changes, the rug torn from beneath Tim's feet by a pale hand of a man who is not a man at all.

The Joker takes Damian, and Tim cannot leave Gotham yet.

 

No one but Timothy knows it, but there is a microscopic tracker embedded in the skin at the base of Damian's spine. Or at least, no one knew it until Tim informs Grayson, Wayne, and Jason that he is going to go after Damian, and that they are not allowed access to the information.

The demand to know, of course. To help. But Tim smiles at them in the manner that Ra's taught him, the one that looks mild and promises blood and pain, and says, "He was my brother before he was anything to any of you. Since you clearly cannot be trusted to keep him safe, I will be the one to recover him."

Tim knows, then, that he will not leave so easily. He is surprised at himself that he would give up as he takes off on a borrowed motorcycle, losing Wayne and the rest as quickly as he can and setting off into the New England countryside. He thinks about Damian, about everything that has happened in the past weeks, and wonders when he grew so weak. That he would simply leave, return to Ra's' side when he was still charged with Damian's protection seems to Tim a failure of character, and he resolves to be stronger in the future.

For the moment, though, the only strength he needs or wants is the kind that is used for ripping people's spines out through their mouths.

When Tim finds the warehouse in which the Joker is holding Damian, he wastes no time in finding a skylight and taking in the situation. _Predictable_ , he thinks, because there is a bomb ticking happily in the corner, and the Joker is standing over Damian with a crowbar, a wild grin on his face. Damian is bloodied and broken, sprawled on his back both his legs and one of his arms twisted awkwardly, and a trickle of blood at his mouth. His costume is torn, and his face is swollen. Damian's condition does not serve to shock or dismay Tim. Instead, he feels cold fury flash through him like iced lightning, and he waits for an opportune moment to drop to the floor behind the Joker and make quick work of the bomb. The device is simple, nothing that Timothy cannot handle, and the second he is finished he prowls across the floor towards the Joker.

Once he is mere inches away, he pulls a blade from his belt and slips it between the Joker's ribs, finding a spot that will have him in agony, without any risk of immediate death. The Joker chokes on his own saliva, and drops to his knees at Tim's feet, casting a glance over his shoulder.

"Ooh," he says, "Blackbird, come out to play." He starts to laugh, and Tim raises his foot and kicks the wretched creature hard in the side of the head, sending him down onto the concrete with a solid thump.

"Damian," says Tim, and Damian looks up with pain-hazy eyes.

"Tim," he whispers, and then coughs weakly.

"Stay still," Tim says, his tone gentle, and then he turns to the Joker.

Damian obeys, lies still and silent as Tim systematically breaks every major bone in the Joker's body, stabs him several times in the chest, and then cuts his throat. Only at the very end does the choking, gurgling laughter finally dry up, and then the only sound is that of Damian's wet breathing.

"Let's get you home, shall we?" Tim says, and transports Damian back to the Batcave as smoothly as he possibly can.

 

It is immediately clear to Tim that the Bats are displeased with his choice of justice, but he doesn't care enough to hide what he did. The only thing that matters to him is that his brother is safe and sound, and on his way to being healed. He is confident that he made the right choice. Or rather, he does not care whether what he did was wrong or not. It was the thing to be done, and he had done it.

When Damian is fully recovered, the elder Wayne calls Tim into his office. All of the Bats are gathered, excluding Cassandra.

“Timothy,” Wayne says, his face dark. “Do you know why you're here?”

Tim snorts. “I am not five,” he says. “Do not treat me like I am.”

“I will take that as a yes.”

“Take it however you want,” Tim says, challenging, cold. “Though I am sure you would anyways.”

“Timothy,” comes Damian's voice from one corner, over by the wall. When Tim looks at him, something dark shudders through him, because Damian's face is conflicted, at once grieving and angry and at peace. “Listen to him, please.”

“You are sending me away,” Tim says, and does not look at Wayne. Damian looks up to meet his gaze, and then immediately flinches away. Tim wonders what is showing on his face. He feels too numb to have any idea.

“Yes,” Damian whispers, and then pushes himself away from the wall and walks out of the room at a pace that would look normal to anyone else, but to Tim signifies flight. Damian is running away from him.

Wayne is frowning at Tim when he looks back up, and opens his mouth to say something. Anger flares, paired with a sick sense of betrayal, and suddenly Tim does not have a single care about keeping his composure.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, venomous. “How dare you take him from me, and then pretend that it is because of you that I am going? You have never had any power over me, nor my favour, nor my trust, and now you never will. I do not care for your ignorant notions of right and wrong, and I do not care for you. He is the only thing in the world I have ever cared about, and if you had seen that, you might have turned me even against Ra's. I would have done anything for him. But you have proven that you cannot take care of him, and I will destroy you and all you love just as surely as you will have destroyed me if I even learn that he has been hurt because of you.” Then he stops, and goes silent as the grave, his eyes a blaze of blue fire in his snow-pale face. Something creaks at the corner of the room, and the other three men glance over. When they look back at Tim, he is gone.

“Oh,” says Jason, into the silence. Dick collapses into a chair.

Bruce thinks that maybe this is what it feels like to rip a boy's still-beating heart from his chest. He wonders if he had done the right thing, in convincing Damian that Tim could not stay, and knows that it is too late now to fix anything if he had been wrong after all.

 

Damian finds Tim packing, throwing the last of his belongings into a bag with as little care as he has ever seen his brother display.

“Timothy,” he says, and Tim goes still.

“Damian,” he says, after a moment, and stands, slinging his back over his shoulder.

“I am sorry,” Damian says. His eyes are shadowed, and he is biting his lip.

“Do not apologize,” Tim says. “There's no point now.”

“I don't want you to go. But my father...”

“I understand.” Tim shifts his bag a bit higher on his shoulder. He is not looking at Damian, rather, he stares at the door. “One day,” he says, “you will kill me.”

Damian startles. “Never,” he vows, and Tim snorts.

“That must be the way of things,” he says. “Would you like to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because, Damian. Because you are a Prince of two kingdoms, and I am the monster that fits into neither.”

Then, Tim walks past Damian, never looking down at him, never looking back.


	5. Epilogue

Ra's is waiting with open arms when Timothy returns to his side. Tim does not accept his comfort then, nor for the rest of that day, but night falls heavy on Tim's shoulders, and he finds himself curled like a small child in Ra's' lap as deep night ticks over into the blackest parts of the morning.

“I warned you about love,” Ra's murmurs to Tim, setting down the book of Hebrew poems he had been reading aloud.

“I know,” Tim says, and then turns his head into Ra's' chest and cries, embarrassed of himself, but unable to hold back any more. Not when he has been shaking internally all day, shuddering apart in the confines of his own mind, trapped, agonized, and betrayed.

Ra's holds him gently, old, strong hands on his back and at his waist, or combing through his hair, or wiping away crystal tears as they fall. He is a sun-warmed stone, Tim's last bastion of strength, and it is only him presence that gets Tim through the night. He allows Tim to break apart in his arms, and then puts him back together with soft-spoken Arabic, and gentle promises of nothing that he cannot give.

In the morning, Tim pulls himself away from Ra's, and says, “Thank you, my lord.”

“I would give you the world,” Ra's says, “if I thought that you might like to have it. But you are happier here, I think.”

“I would be happier with Damian,” Tim says.

“I know. As would I. But he has made his choice, and until such a time as the Detective becomes less unreasonable, he will have to live with it.” Ra's strokes a hand down Tim's cheek. “I know my grandson. He will not be happy without you, either.”

“Then why did he send me away?” Tim whispers.

“Because he is young, and falling in love.” Ra's pauses. “I remember when it was you.”

“You sent Jason away.”

“I did, and you are stronger for it. As is he. Damian is not the same as you, Tim, for all your similarities. Nor am I like Bruce Wayne.” With strong hands, Ra's shifts Tim so that he is more comfortably situation on Ra's' lap. “Love is dangerous, Tim, and no one knows that better than I. It would have broken you, because you love too easily, despite what you might like. Damian, on the other hand, is too hardhearted, and needs to learn that sometimes it is good to allow others in. All is as it was meant to be.”

“We were meant to be apart?” Tim's eyes are pleading, young like he has not been in a long time.

“No,” Ra's says, and pets Tim's hair gently. “You were not. Your destinies are entwined, now and forever. But separation is important, at times. It will make you closer, ultimately.”

“When I left, I told him that he would kill me one day.”

“And perhaps that will be true,” Ra's says. “But you will not die until you are ready, my Nightingale, and not before I am ready either.”

Tim hums. “As you say, Ra's.”

“Indeed it is,” Ra's chuckles. “Now, come. Food, tea. Then I want to watch you kill something- that is a joy I have not had in too long a time.”

Tim laughs, free and easy, and follows Ra's to find a meal, and a man who has displeased his lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my friends. It's been a long, and somewhat harrowing journey for me, as this project at times completely consumed my brain, and at others wouldn't let me touch it. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Do not fear, however. I know that the ending is somewhat bleak, but I do have plans to write more in this 'verse, and I will try to make it better. Maybe. If I feel like it, and ever have time. Laugh.


End file.
